


Juxtaposition

by tmelange



Series: Between an Arrow and a Target [4]
Category: Smallville
Genre: M/M, POV Third Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-30
Updated: 2011-06-30
Packaged: 2017-10-20 21:42:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/217374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tmelange/pseuds/tmelange
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lex Luthor watches the developing relationship between Clark and Oliver and is not pleased.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Juxtaposition

**Author's Note:**

> This story is somewhat dependent on knowledge of _Smallville_ season 6 and the other stories in this universe. It doesn't really stand on its own.
> 
> This story is part of a **SERIES** called _Between an Arrow and a Target._

Lex Luther traced the outline of the large manila envelope sitting like a particularly deceptive lure in the middle of his desk, ran a lazy finger from edge to middle and back to edge, creating imaginary figure eights as he contemplated whether he really wanted to open this can of worms. The envelope's contents were no mystery; his hired man, Reese, had delivered a verbal report of the results of his surveillance with admirable attention to detail. The report provided Lex with enough ammunition to go after Oliver Queen. He didn't need the visual proof.

But he couldn't resist.

His fingers were at the flap, playing with the metal clasp, prepared to turn, open, reveal, when Lana walked through the double doors, calling his name. His fingers stopped their fiddling, reached for his glass of bourbon, instead. Sometimes, he forgot that Lana was living in the mansion, liable to interrupt any important progression at any moment. Unlike his other trophies, Lana seemed to have a mind of her own. Occasionally.

"Lex."

"Lana." He set his glass down and got up from his chair, walked towards her and took her in his arms. She was wearing the Givenchy riding jacket and breeches he had gotten her for their two-week anniversary, and he wondered for a moment whether he had promised to go riding with her. He had been busy lately, with the aftermath of Dark Thursday still affecting projects and markets, his work with the military, and Oliver in town causing…trouble—and Lana was too often a distraction. He might have promised her anything to keep her happy, calm, pacified, and the fact that he couldn't remember what plans they might have made was not only a testament to the current state of their relationship, but also to the critical nature of his work. The world had been attacked by aliens, by superhuman beings from another planet. He had been…possessed by such a creature, and could be again. Making plans, gathering information, and preparing for the next assault was his first, his only priority. He was sure there would be another attack—and this time Lex Luthor wouldn't be a victim, wouldn't be the one waking up in a hospital with no memory of crucial events, wouldn't be the one forced to explain to the United States government why a person matching his description had been seen stealing government assets.

"Is everything alright?" he asked. Kissing her had become mechanical, something he did simply to ease the tension that had developed in their relationship between the time Lana had moved into the mansion and had expressed her unwavering support, and the time, a few weeks later, when she had decided her support did, in fact, have certain conditions and was, in fact, tied to certain ultimatums. The bloom was off the rose—he could see it in her eyes, yet the fact of it mattered not at all, in truth. Lex had sacrificed too much to win Lana Lang. She didn't have the right to take it all back, cry foul, threaten to leave. She wasn't going anywhere, despite any developing desire to the contrary. So he would kiss her, hold her, sleep in her bed; he would take care of her every need like the prized possession she was, and she would respond. No other result was acceptable.

After all, he had relinquished the dregs of his relationship with Clark for her, broken it beyond repair. For that she owed him nothing less than her complete loyalty and her unconditional love.

"Don't tell me—"

"Lana, I—"

"Lex, you promised." Her lashes fluttered, and her disappointment was evident.

"I know," he sighed, "but I have an important phone call to make. It can't wait."

Lana extricated herself from his arms. "I seem to be the only one who has to wait."

"You know that's not true. There's no place I'd rather be than with you."

"It doesn't seem that way."

Lex rested his hands on her shoulders, squeezed reassuringly. "Lana, I promised to protect you. Everything I'm doing is to secure our future."

"It's the present I'm worried about, Lex."

"Just give me thirty minutes and I'll join you."

She stared, shrugged. "Fine. I'm headed to the cemetery."

"I'll meet you there."

When he was again alone, Lex returned to his chair behind his desk, took a seat, and proceeded to open the manila envelope, determined not to be phased by anything he would _see._ He already knew—

Each photo was a knife-like gash in time, a parody that assaulted his eyes in staccato bursts, in camera flashes that juxtaposed a past life over each scene, a life that included him, that was Clark and Lex instead of—

Clark and Oliver in the barn; _Martha was in Metropolis overnight._ Clark and Oliver sitting together in the kitchen, talking. _The Lane girl was at the Talon with some friends from out of town._ Clark and Oliver playing basketball outside the house. _Chloe was working at the Planet that afternoon._ Clark and Oliver and a silver Mercedes parked in the driveway, and a photo that was time stamped at eleven forty-three at night. _Jonathan was dead. Dead._ Clark and Oliver—Clark…and Oliver on the couch in the living room—

Telephoto lenses provided such great detail. He'd have to give Reese a bonus; his diligence was…commendable. Lex straightened the photos, slid them back in the envelope and placed the envelope in a locked desk drawer.

 _Pretender._

Apparently, Oliver wasted no time. And Clark— _stupid Clark_ —was too naïve to know better.

 _Usurper._

What—did Clark think he could just…replace him with Oliver? One rich guy was as good as any other?

No. _No._ He had gone through too much trouble to make sure Clark was suffering, _suffering,_ for the lies, _the shameless lies,_ for the lack of trust. Clark was supposed to be watching him with Lana; he was supposed to be miserable—he was _supposed_ to be sitting amongst the hay and the cow shit, saying to himself, _it could have been me._

 _It was supposed to be me._

Not Oliver Queen. _I was meant to be the good guy, the brother; the best friend who was allowed access to the inner sanctum, to the secrets he held most dear._

Oliver was no better than he was— _he wasn't!_ —why was he—? In fact, he was worse. He pretended to have changed, but Oliver was still the same devious bully, the same liar— _thief_ —who had made his life miserable in school. There were no white hearts in their privileged little circle, only hearts stained black with the evil deeds of arrogant boys turned men. Oliver Queen was no one's white knight. He would make sure Clark knew exactly what type of man his new best friend really was.

If he couldn't have Clark and all his secrets, no would have him, least of all Oliver.


End file.
